


danish violets and other magic

by opheliasnettles



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus - Shakespeare
Genre: Blood, F/F, Flowers, Hurt/Comfort, More tags to be added, Water, alternating pov, injuries, like a lot of it, probably very inaccurate first aid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25543033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliasnettles/pseuds/opheliasnettles
Summary: She’s falling until she hits the murk at the bottom. It hits heavy and then it splits, pushing her through membranes of earth, through to the other side of something.or: this is not rome.
Relationships: Lavinia (Titus Andronicus)/Ophelia (Hamlet), lavinia/ophelia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	danish violets and other magic

**Author's Note:**

> hi! major tws for injuries/mutilation/blood in this fic. i have decided that lavinia was not sexually assaulted when she escaped - i don’t feel i could adequately tackle that subject and honestly i don’t really want to. but there are going to be a few allusions to it being what she escaped, so be aware of that. 
> 
> on a lighter note hi!! this project will, with any luck, be three chapters long - first chapter is lavinia’s rescue, second is a beginning, third is that gay shit you came here for. my adhd ass is bad at commitment but i’ll do my very best. love you all mwah mwah
> 
> (also excuse the danish and latin in the chapter titles if they’re awful i’m just using google translate i’m sorry)

Lavinia sees the river ahead of her, deep and cold and unforgiving, and her hands are burning and her mouth is full of metal and her stumbling run is desperate and she would rather have her head bashed in against river stones than survive a moment longer. She’s lightheaded and the footsteps behind her are heavy and getting too close, and the roots are tangled here, if she trips she will be worse than dead. She dives. 

The water takes her like a daughter. The currents whip her around in thick, icy blankets, and she’s falling until she hits the murk at the bottom. It hits heavy and then it splits, pushing her through membranes of earth, through to the other side of something. 

-

Ophelia swings her legs over the edge of the willow branch. The water sits still beneath her, clear with only the gentlest of currents. She can see the rocks and silt that line the bottom. 

She  _ is  _ mad, but not like they say. She is furious. She has half a mind to smother Claudius, half a mind to poison Hamlet, half a mind to wipe out the whole Danish court. Traitors, all of them. 

One daisy for each, she weaves together and dangles over the branch. It is quite boring, but she supposes floristry is less destructive than murder, so she will let her fingers get rubbed raw on the stems and keep her chains going. 

The water under her feet bubbles. She peers over at it, halting her braid of flowers. It stills, then bubbles again, with more vigour. Ophelia braces herself against the branch with one hand and leans farther out to inspect the disturbance. She sniffs the air. It smells like dirt. 

The water stills for a moment, then bubbles again, almost explosively, splashing Ophelia’s legs, and she shuts her eyes and throws a hand in front of her face. Nothing more hits her, but the river gurgles and hiccups, and she tentatively opens her eyes again. 

A girl is in the water.

-

Lavinia is flipped around, floating up towards the surface again, and she screams, mute, she cannot return, she would rather drown ten times over, and she tries to push herself down, but she rises still, howling with what noise is left in her, until her head breaks the surface with a loud gurgle. 

It is not Rome. 

The sun is blinding, the water is calm, there is a heavy tree with long draping tendrils hanging over her, and in that tree is a figure, peering over at her. A goddess or figure of one, she assumes, wrapped up in vibrant purple and yellow flowers, a white gown unlike anything Lavinia’s seen before, long dark hair. 

The figure pushes off her perch and slips into the water next to Lavinia with barely a splash. Her hands rest loosely against the small of Lavinia’s back and the underside of her knees. 

_ Thank you, _ Lavinia tries to say, but it is more of a gurgling noise than words, and blood drips onto that beautiful expensive white sleeve of the figure’s, red on white, red on white and she wants the water to eat her again but who is she to go against the will of this godly figure? 

The figure pays no mind to the ruined fabric, no, she pulls Lavinia closer to her chest and carries her out of the river. 

-

Ophelia drags the girl to shore. She is bleeding profusely from her mouth, and more concerningly from what is left of her hands, from her wrists. There is blood on her dress, everywhere, and on the robes the girl is wearing, a muted pale blue soaked purple. It is too much blood for someone so small - in Ophelia’s arms, she feels like a slip of a thing. 

The girl is dazed, and she keeps running her wrist over the blood on Ophelia’s gown. She is cold as a winter snap, and under the blood her lips are blue. Her skin is a bright white, a marble. Ophelia lays her out on the soft, cushioned ground. 

She gurgles something incoherent. 

Ophelia grabs her garden shears - the girl flinches - and rips at the hem of her dress until she has a long ribbon of fabric. She takes the girl's arm as gently as she can, ties it around her wrist with a stick, tightens it. The girl bites her lip - it must hurt like all the fires of hell, and Ophelia mumbles an apology as she wraps. She has never been more grateful for her brother's lessons on treating wounds. 

-

The figure cuts another makeshift bandage from her robe, cutting into that beautiful, delicate fabric, and Lavinia wants to protest, but her head is full of sparks when she moves. The figure wraps the bandage around her wrists, affixes a stick into the knot, and tightens it sharply. Lavinia winces. 

The figure speaks, in a tongue Lavinia doesn't know, but it sounds like an apology. 

She bandages the tender wound where Lavinia's hand was, ever so gentle around the raw areas, that beautiful fabric of lightly patterned silk absorbing red and red and red. Now that Lavinia is close, she can see the front of the dress is formed to the figure’s torso with curves and bends and complex stitching, something Lavinia can only presume is exorbitantly expensive. 

_ I’m sorry about your robes _ , she says, without remembering, and all that comes out are some garbled throaty noises and far too much blood. Her head pounds. 

The figure reaches for her instrument, cuts a jagged swath of fabric. Lavinia’s eyes shut for a moment, her heart moved to her head to pound loud as thunder in her ears. 

-

The girl has passed out, Ophelia worries. She wipes the girl’s mouth with the fistful of fabric she cut. 

“Wake up,” Ophelia says, sharply, and the girl’s eyelids twitch open. She holds the scrap to her lips, and the girl obediently bites down, lets the silk absorb and turn red. Ophelia dabs at her cheeks and drags away the hair plastered over her eyes. 

“I believe I must carry you back to court,” Ophelia thinks aloud, running a hand over the girl’s shoulder. The girl does not seem to comprehend any of it. 

Ophelia moves gently and obviously, careful not to startle the girl, but she manages to hook one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, and with a little effort she heaves the girl into her arms and stands. 

-

The goddess-figure is carrying Lavinia, and she tucks her head into her neck. She’s exhausted through her bones. Her head spins and sparks and it feels like someone took a hot poker and shoved it down her throat. 

_ Sleep,  _ says her body, and the figure says something that sounds almost like  _ sleep _ . 

She closes her eyes and drops into blank space. 


End file.
